Ask Someone Pretty
by hopeless3
Summary: A fluffy Cy/Skids, because I love them. A happy ending, because I can't bear to think of them otherwise.


"Cya....do you think I'm ugly?"  
  
Cyanide Torres, who had been trying to concentrate on his chem homework and failing miserably, completely froze. Well, okay, completely froze except for his pencil, which slipped out of his fingers and went clattering to the floor, where it rolled up under his bed. Cy dived for the bit of wood and lead, glad for the opportunity to conceal his face and think of a suitable reply. Preferably not the first two that had popped into his head, which were "Hell no!" and "And only if ugly really means 'so beautiful it hurts.'"  
  
Lying half-under the bed and hidden from view, Cy took in a deep breath and blew it back out slowly. Dios. Was Skids serious? Though his friend had never boasted about his appearance before, he'd never shown any signs of insecurity either, and Cy'd always taken it for granted that Skids knew he was.....well, pretty damn hot, to be frank. Cy could think of several adjectives to describe Skids, but ugly definitely wasn't one of them.  
  
Charming was. And lovable. And indescribably exquisite. And, even though Cy had promised himself he'd never use the word, sweet.  
  
"Cya?" called a tentative voice from somewhere above. "Are you okay? Do you need me to get a flashlight and come help you?"  
  
"NO!" Cy shouted hastily, his eyes raking the darkness under the bed, searching. He didn't trust himself to be alone in a dark, close space with Skids. "No, I've just found it." He located the pencil beside an old sock, grabbed it, and scooted out, hoping against hope that his friend had forgotten the original reason Cy had been under the bed. In fact, he probably had. Skids did stuff like that a lot, especially if he was distracted by something shiny. Yeah. He'd probably forgotten all about it.  
  
"You didn't answer me yet, Cy. Does that mean you do?"  
  
Or not.  
  
*************************************************************  
  
  
  
Skids DiAngelo stared at his best friend expectantly. He hated to bug Cya, but he needed an answer to this question. It was important. And plus, Cy was nice to stare at. All long and lean and looking as if he'd been dipped in golden caramel that was just waiting to be licked up in long, slow drips that would fill his mouth with sticky sweetness and slide leisurely down his throat......  
  
Skids blushed. He really liked caramel. And Cy. He liked Cy even more than he liked caramel, and that was a whole lot. In fact, he hadn't even realized how deeply he felt about his friend until a week ago, when he'd been talking to Tybalt about a session of marker-tattooing. He was just describing the tiger Cy had drawn on his tummy when the red-head had leaped to his feet and waved an imperious hand.  
  
"Okay, stop, Skids. I can't take it anymore."  
  
"Can't take what?" Skids had asked, bewildered and a bit hurt. If Tybalt wanted him to go home, all he had to do was say so......  
  
"This....this.....charade!" Tybalt had exclaimed, throwing his arms into the air dramatically.  
  
"Charade?" Skids echoed, puzzled. They hadn't been playing charades. In fact, he hadn't played that since he was thirteen!  
  
"Yes. This game you insist on playing."  
  
"Game?" Now Skids was really confused. "I....I didn't know I was......what game am I playing?" He gazed upward at Tybalt, totally lost.  
  
"Skids." Tybalt's voice became quieter, and he seated himself on the couch again, rubbing his temples. "I'm going to tell you something, and you're not going to believe me. But hear me out, okay?"  
  
"Okay," Skids had agreed hesitantly. What could Tybalt possibly have to tell him that he wouldn't believe?  
  
"Skids. Listen to me. You don't love Harley."  
  
Skids had sat bolt upright, his eyes flashing indignantly and his mouth opening immediately to protest. But before he could get a word out, Tybalt held up a hand. "You promised to hear me out. Remember?"  
  
Skids settled back into the couch, crossing his arms over his chest and glaring. "I remember. And I will. But as of right now, I think you just want him for yourself."  
  
"True," Tybalt had surprised him by admitting, "But that's only part of it. The other part is that you sincerely don't love him. Well, not romantically, anyway."  
  
"What makes you say that?"  
  
"First of all, you never talk about him. Other than when I bring him up, I mean," Tybalt added as Skids opened his mouth defensively. "Just think about it, and you'll realize that it's true. The only times we've ever talked about Harley, I've broached the subject."  
  
He let Skids contemplate that for a few moments before moving on. "Second, I'll tell you who you do always mention. Cyanide Torres."  
  
Skids stuck his jaw out stubbornly. "I do not!"  
  
"Do too."  
  
"Do not!"  
  
"Do too."  
  
"Name one time!"  
  
"Just now. Magic Marker-tattooing. Tiger on your stomach," Tybalt said dryly.   
  
That had brought Skids up short, and Tybalt, seeing this, pressed his advantage. "You know it's true. Don't bother denying it. You know what you are, Skids DiAngelo?" He paused dramatically, but no response was forthcoming from the other boy. "You're a coward, plain and simple!"  
  
"I'm a coward, huh?" Skids demanded, his temper piqued. "Well, at least I'm not a stalker! At least I can accept that Harley is in love with someone else!"  
  
Tybalt chuckled, but there was no mirth in the sound. "Yes, you can accept that quite easily, can't you, Skids?"  
  
Skids frowned, confused. "What do you mean by that?"  
  
Tybalt sighed. "If you won't interrupt me, I'll see if I can explain your own convoluted reasoning to you. You love Cyanide Torres. I don't know for how long or when it started, but you love him. The idiotic grin you get on your face when his name is mentioned is enough to convince me of that. But you're afraid to act on that love. You're insecure. You think he'll reject you or things won't work out between the two of you. And maybe you don't want to ruin a good friendship. So you lie to yourself. You tell yourself that you love Harley instead. And do you know why?"  
  
Skids shook his head mutely, looking shaken but still defiant.  
  
"Because Harley is safe. Because Harley has a boyfriend, and you can make excuses to yourself as to why you don't tell him how you feel. You can tell yourself you don't want to ruin the relationship between Mik and Harley, that you just want Harley to be happy. You can invent any number of defenses. And you never run the risk of being hurt."  
  
Tybalt took a deep breath, and, noting Skids' ashen face and huge eyes, softened his tone. "I'm not saying that you never loved Harley, Skids. I'm sure that, once upon a time, you did. And maybe he even loved you back. But that was a long time ago, and, coloring books aside, you've both grown up. Harley's moved on. It's time you stopped kidding yourself and did the same."   
  
When Skids still made no response, Tybalt's lips twisted into a reluctant smile. "It goes directly against my nature to point you toward anyone besides myself, you know," he confessed. "I almost didn't do it at all, but.....well, as much as I hate to admit it, I could never make you as happy as you deserve to be. And neither could Harley. I had my doubts as to whether or not the Torres boy was capable of it until I saw your face when you were talking about him today. You were practically radioactive, you glowed so brightly. After that, I knew what I had to do."  
  
Skids finally regained the ability to speak. "You're a good man, Tybalt. But....I'm confused. Some part of me is still firmly convinced that you're just trying to get rid of some of the competition for Harley. I need to think."  
  
Tybalt nodded, seeming to have expected this. "That's exactly what you should do. Take as long as you need. But call me when you've made a decision."  
  
For the next few days, Skids devoted his mind to little else. He didn't pay attention in class or at the band's practices, which didn't earn him many points with the teachers or his band mates. Even his coloring suffered, because he could only think in Cyanide colors: soft, velvet blacks, dark, rich browns, and dusky, tawny golds. Only you couldn't really call it suffering, because, Skids had to admit, he thought the pictures looked better that way.  
  
Of course, first he'd gone through denial. He did not love Cyanide, he loved Harley, and Tybalt was only trying to get him out of the way. But for some reason, he couldn't get the artist's words out of his head. They had struck a chord somewhere inside him, and now they kept floating to the top of his mind, so that he just couldn't shove them away. And then he started wondering about little things that he had always avoided considering before, like why, if he really loved Harley, it didn't bother him when Mik kissed his boyfriend, and why, sometimes, he would lose every thought in his head when Cy looked at him. Little things that had never seemed to amount to much, taken on their own, but when they were all put together.....  
  
Skids' denial cracked a little more every time Cy smiled at him, until finally it lay in shards at his feet. Realization came to replace it, and with realization, admission, and with admission, acceptance. Until one morning Skids had woken up thinking, "I love Cyanide Torres," and the words gave him goosebumps and made his mouth stretch in a smile so wide his jaw ached. He couldn't figure out why he'd fought so long against something that felt so damn good. He wanted to dash to the window, fling it open, and scream his news to the world.   
  
But first he had to call Tybalt.  
  
The artist picked up on the fifth ring, and his "Hello?" sounded somewhat less than alert.  
  
"Tybalt! Hi! It's me, Skids!"  
  
A groan from the other end of the line. "Skids, do you realize that it's six in the morning?"  
  
"Yes, but--"  
  
"On a Saturday?"  
  
"Yes, but--"  
  
"And I'm in bed?"  
  
Skids wavered. "Alone in bed, or....."  
  
"No, not alone in bed. What kind of pathetic loser do you take me for?"  
  
"Oh. Oh, sorry." Skids felt a little guilty, but decided to go ahead with his news. After all, Tybalt had said he should call. "It's just that you were right!"  
  
"Of course I was right." A slight pause. "About what?"  
  
"About....about me and Cya," Skids mumbled, feeling himself blush. Maybe he wasn't ready to shout it to the world after all.  
  
"O-oh yes," Tybalt replied, trying to stifle a yawn and failing. "Yes, I rather suspected I was. Have you told him yet?"  
  
Skids felt a knot of panic clench in his stomach. He had known there was something he was forgetting. "Uh....not yet."  
  
"Well, what are you waiting for? Go get your man!"  
  
Skids hesitated, then gave in to the new fear spiraling up inside him. "I want to. It's just that....well, what if he doesn't want me? I mean, what if he thinks I'm too ugly or something? What if I've been freakishly ugly all my life, and everyone's just been too nice to tell me? Agh! Tybalt! How do I know if I'm too ugly?"  
  
He could practically hear Tybalt smirking. "Ask someone pretty."  
  
By that, of course, he'd meant himself. Even Skids wasn't spacey enough not to realize that. But....well, who better to ask than Cyanide? After all, what Tybalt considered ugly might be different from Cy's definition of the word. And, in this case (okay, in every case), it was Cya's opinion that mattered the most to him. So instead he said, "Okay. Thanks, Tybalt. For everything. You're a great friend."  
  
The artist started to reply, but a voice in the background cut him off. A very male voice. "Tybalt, come back to bed this instant!"  
  
"Well, as you can probably hear, I'm wanted elsewhere," Tybalt said smugly. "I'd better go before he gets even more cranky."  
  
"Yeah," Skids agreed absently, thinking hard. There was something familiar about that voice....like he'd heard it before......  
  
"Are you coming or not?" the voice in the background demanded, and Skids had it.  
  
"Tybalt! Is that....Apollo?" he asked incredulously.  
  
There was laughter from the other end of the line, then a sly voice said, "Anything you want, kid. You just have to go after it." A click, then the dial tone.   
  
Skids stared at the phone in astonishment for a moment, then grinned and replaced it on the receiver. "Well, if he can do it....." he murmured to himself, and reached for the phone again to dial a number he knew by heart.  
  
When he'd asked to come over because he needed to talk, Cy hadn't said, "Why can't we just talk about it on the phone?" or "I'm busy with a load of chem homework." He'd just said, "Sure," and if Skids had had any doubts before, they were erased by that simple understanding.  
  
And now he was here, perched at the foot of Cy's bed, staring at his friend, waiting for an answer to his all-important question. Or one of his all-important questions, at least. He had several.  
  
But it didn't look like he was going to get a response any time soon. Cy seemed to have frozen in place. Skids sighed and looked down at his hands, which were folded together across his knee. Probably Cy was trying to figure out a way to let him down easy. Probably he didn't want to hurt Skids' feelings, but didn't want to lie to him either. Probably--  
  
"Uh. Why do you ask?"  
  
**************************************************************  
  
Cy asked the question hesitantly, choosing his words carefully. He couldn't afford to mess this up. From the way Skids' body was tensed, this was important to him. This might even be the reason he'd come here today. He'd sounded pretty mysterious over the phone, and Cy hadn't wanted to make him spill his guts before he was ready. Maybe now he was.  
  
Skids gazed downward again, tracing a finger over the pattern on the bedspread. "Well, um, I just.....I just wanted to know. And I figured I should ask someone pretty." And he blushed. Again.  
  
Well, hell. Cy sat down heavily on the bed. A blushing Skids calling him pretty? Cyanide discreetly pinched himself. Yep. He was awake. But still, he had to question it. "You think I'm. Um. Pretty?"   
  
Skids looked up through his bangs, meeting Cy's eyes earnestly. "You're the prettiest person I know."  
  
And yeah, whoever had put a racing motor on his heart was going to pay later. He stammered out, "Um, t-thanks. No one's ever c-called me pretty before," and mentally added 'messing with voicebox' the list of offenses committed against him.  
  
"You're welcome." Skids smiled sweetly at him, and never mind beating too fast, his heart was now firmly lodged in his throat. But then the smile faltered, and Skids looked troubled. "Cy, you still haven't answered my question...."  
  
"Oh, right, sorry. Okay, well, turn your body to face me. I need to study you." He didn't really. He knew exactly what Skids looked like, right down to the adorable little crook in his pinkie toes. But it gave him an opportunity to stare without embarrassing himself, and there was no way he was passing that up.   
  
Skids wriggled around on the bed to face Cya, tucking his feet under him so that their knees were brushing. Instinctively, Cy drew his legs in a bit further, giving himself some space. Not that he didn't want to touch his friend. Far from it. But to Skids, this was all casual, friendly, and Cy couldn't trust himself to keep things that way if he was tempted too much. And even though his whole body was begging him to move back that fraction of an inch, he wasn't going to. Really. His body could just shut up. Any time now.  
  
Then Skids made the whole argument moot by scooting forward, and Cy almost groaned in frustration. Knees brushing again, and there was no way he could move back a second time without it seeming weird, like he was trying to escape. Which he was, actually.   
  
'Caramba, it's just his knees,' Cy told himself sternly. 'Nothing to get so worked up about. Now breathe. I said breathe, dammit!"  
  
When his respiratory system finally decided to obey him, he sucked in a deep breath and turned briskly to the business at hand, which was......uh......it was.....  
  
"Cya?"  
  
Oh yeah, he was supposed to be scrutinizing Skids. Okay, no problem. He could handle that. He ignored the tingles emanating from his knees (which wasn't easy, seeing as how his knees had never tingled before) and got down to studying something even better than chemistry: his best friend's face.  
  
Well, first off, of course, there was that backwards baseball cap and the shock of golden-brown hair spilling from it. It was weird, Cy mused fleetingly, that Skids never had hat hair on the few occasions he removed the cap. But even if he did, it wouldn't make him any less appealing. Not with those bright hazel, green-flecked eyes that soaked you to the bone in light and warmth with just a glance. Or that cute little turned-up nose with a smattering of chocolate freckles across it. Or those full, innocent lips that had a tendency to quirk upwards and reveal the tiny dimple at the left corner of the mouth. To say nothing of that body.....Cy allowed his eyes to inspect the strong biceps, let them wander over the broad shoulders and linger on the toned abs he knew lay beneath the white undershirt. And all wrapped up in beautifully smooth, baby soft skin that Cy was sure would taste like cinnamon. Skin that he wanted to lick and bite and mark and--  
  
"Well?" Skids demanded impatiently, squirming like a puppy. "Have you decided yet?"  
  
Cy dragged his eyes up to the face again. "Yes. Yes, I have."  
  
"You have?" He went absolutely still, face flushed and eager. "Am I pretty?"  
  
Cya breathed in quickly through his nose. He didn't want to say this. He really didn't want to. It was hard as hell. But he knew it had to come out. "No."  
  
"Oh." And just like that, the light went out of Skids' eyes.   
  
"No! No, Skids! I didn't mean it like that!" Cy exclaimed, genuinely horrified. Shit. This was where trying to be smooth got him. He'd been planning to use the whole, 'You're not pretty. You're beautiful,' ploy, but of course it had backfired. "I meant....what I meant was, you're not pretty!"  
  
Skids turned his head quickly, but not before Cy saw his features twist in grief. "You've said that," he said, and there was a quaver in his voice that Cyanide hated. Hated it because this was Skids and he should never have to sound like that. Hated himself even more because he'd put it there.  
  
"Skids." Cy tried to make his voice gentle and cajoling instead of panicked and self-loathing. "I didn't mean that the way it sounded. Skids, look at me." And instead of telling him to burn in hell, as Cy half-expected him to, he obeyed.   
  
Dios. He'd been prepared for the initial emotion to be anger or shock or maybe a little hurt, but not this much pain. He hadn't expected to find himself too distraught to carry out his little scheme, and he sure as hell hadn't expected it to make him feel like he'd been slugged in the gut. And now Skids was just staring at him, a single tear clinging to his lashes, looking wounded and vulnerable and somehow so lost, and suddenly it was just too much.  
  
He'd shoved the cap off, tangled his fingers in the tousled, silky hair, and thrown himself practically into Skids' lap before he realized what he was doing, and by then he was too far gone to care. So instead of wasting his time trying to, he pressed as close as he could get without major surgery and nibbled on that sweet bottom lip that had been tempting him all afternoon.  
  
For a instant, Skids sat perfectly motionless, his body rigid, and Cy actually thought about considering backing off. Then, abruptly, he relaxed, making a soft little breathy noise somewhere between a moan and a sigh, and the tiny bit of control Cyanide had managed to muster started to crumble again. It fell in complete ruins when Skids tentatively captured his jaw in one hand and started kissing him back.  
  
For someone who seemed so innocent, he was one hell of a kisser.  
  
It took several minutes for him to break away, mainly because his tongue was busy finding out what a great place Skids' mouth was, but eventually he had to breathe. So he pulled back reluctantly, gasped in a quick mouthful of oxygen, and dove back in to explore the thus far uncharted territory of his best friend's neck. He was vaguely aware that he was babbling, probably idiotic, inane drivel, but Skids didn't seem to care, not if you went by how he was giggling and stroking Cy's back and whimpering in this broken, incredibly sexy way. In the back of Cy's mind, he processed the rising bubble of joy in the pit of his stomach and the realization that, with hands like that, it was no wonder Skids was such a great keyboardist, and he also vowed vaguely to tell his friend how lovely he was very, very soon. But the only thing that really registered in his confused, excited brain was the thought that he had been right.  
  
Skids' skin did taste like cinnamon.  
  
*************************************************************  
  
  
  
Skids had gone from hopeful to devastated to confused to surprised to more turned on than he'd ever been in his life in the space of about five minutes, and his head was spinning from it. At least, that was one excuse for it. Another was that the guy he was in love with was sucking on a particularly sensitive spot on his throat and whispering things in Spanish that he couldn't understand but was pretty sure were complimentary.  
  
"Ah, el querido, yo lo he querido para tan largo," Cy murmured, leaving a hickey that somebody would be sure to ask about later. But Skids didn't care. In fact, he was kinda proud of it. He could tell people it was from his boyfriend. The thought made him giggle.  
  
"Usted no tiene la menor idea lo que usted hace a mí," Cy continued. "Cómo usted me hace me siento. Ah, Skids...." And suddenly he switched to English, though Skids didn't think he realized it. Maybe he never knew he was speaking Spanish to begin with. "Skids, you make me believe in God again. Not because you always preach at me like mi abuela, but because....." He suddenly lifted his head and stared, like his friend was something wonderful and rare that had to be memorized while there was a chance, and Skids felt the fire in the pit of his stomach blaze higher. "Because.....how else could anyone like you have happened?" Then he buried his face back in Skids' neck, nuzzling and licking this time. "Yo lo amo, querido."  
  
"I love you too," Skids whispered, grinning to himself. He might never learn the language, but he'd always recognize those words when they come from Cy, because Tybalt was right. He did love Cy, and Cy did make him happy. Happier than keyboarding and coloring and Buffy and even happier than something really shiny. And that, Skids thought, smiling in satisfaction, was saying something. 


End file.
